Shards Behind A Golden Frame
by Sabaye Leyr
Summary: What lies behind wizard paintings and photographs? How much of the real person is contained in some pigmented magic, behind the glass? Do they have a soul? When a wizard becomes attached to the painting of a dead student, is he really in love with her,
1. Prologue

Shards Behind A Golden Frame

Summary: What lies behind wizard paintings and photographs? How much of the real person is contained in some pigmented magic, behind the glass? Do they have a soul? When a wizard becomes attached to the painting of a dead student, is he really in love with her, or fragmented shards of the person she was? HG/SS

AN: Slightly AU—applying some components of HBP while not others. Not beta read, so please forgive errors.

--

_I've been looking in the mirror for so long.  
That I've come to believe my soul's on the other side.  
_

_All the little pieces falling, shatter. _

Shards of me,  
Too sharp to put back together.  
Too small to matter,  
But big enough to cut me into so many little pieces.  
If I try to touch her

_  
And I bleed,  
I bleed,  
And I breathe,  
I breathe no more._

--

Severus Snape was in a foul mood on this particular muggy and scented summer evening. Not that this was a particularly odd state for him to be in, but it was considerably fouler than usual. Severus's foul moods were quite different from his rages, which were what the students usually thought as his foul moods. A dark minded Snape was quiet. He did not storm; in fact, he hardly even spoke. Foul moods were moods inspired by deep thought, and therefore that is what they consisted of. Pacing, scowling, muttering, and thinking.

The man tended to add some dramatic effects during the school season—it would not do to see the feared Potions Master speaking to himself and pacing about like a deranged man. He added the yelling and the punishments to encourage others to leave him be while he puzzled out whatever terrible problem he faced.

Remus Lupin sensed that this was a different kind of problem the Potions Master faced. It didn't seem to involve sums or magic or potions. The man was distraught, and Remus was rather confused. He'd just returned home from the Prince estate (which was also partly his by inheritance, due to the deaths of all other viable heirs), where he went for at least two weeks every summer to check up on the home and it's assets. He had seemed to be in quite a cheerful mood—or what was considered cheerful for the dour man. He had made a few sparse comments in years past that he found the home a relaxing place, conducive to studying and experimentation. The other half was owned by a distant half-blood cousin who was well renowned in France for her Charms research. Apparently the two spent a couple of weeks arguing over Charms and Potions, and aiding one another with their research.

The sudden change in moods was not entirely unusual in itself, but the anger and puzzlement being over a kind of emotion was. It was not that Severus Snape was incapable of emotion—he just usually chose to ignore them.

"Good evening, Severus," Remus said calmly as he walked pass the man. He was duly ignored. Remus stopped and tried to make sense of the quiet and quickly spoken words that Severus was speaking.

"If you don't mind me asking…what is wrong?" Remus asked softly, entirely expecting him to get a snarled reply along the lines of "I do mind, now bugger off!". But he was completely astounded when Snape turned to look at him, his dark eyes stormy and deep.

"They put the bloody portrait in my laboratory! In _my _laboratory! Without asking!" he raged, indignant at the invasion of his privacy. But the emotion in his face showed his true feelings. Yes, he was annoyed at the presumption, but that wasn't the cause of all this.

Remus felt a slight pull of sadness in his gut, as if he almost knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

"Whose portrait?" he asked quietly.

"Hermione Granger's," he said, and the voice he replied in was rather limp.

Remus winced. Ministry Officials really did know how to rub a tragedy in, didn't they?

"But why? She didn't die in your lab," he said conversationally, and Snape turned away again.

"Some tripe about how my classroom was where the "brilliant young heroine" attended her last NEWT, where she then proceeded to almost best my score. Therefore, it was the proper place for her photograph. Why not put it in the Gryffindor Common Room? The trophy room? Or even Minerva's office? Why in my lab!" He was getting worked up, and this was rather unsettling.

"Severus, you well know they couldn't put it in the common room. Those students knew her, how would it feel for a picture of your dead classmate to be brooding over anything you did in your common room?"

"But I bloody knew her too! I don't want a bleeding picture of Hermione Granger brooding over what I do in my lab!" he snapped, and then as an afterthought added, "Because she was an annoying know it all," but they both knew it was a feeble cover.

"It can't be that bad, Severus. It's not like it's real. She's dead…it's only a photograph."

In hindsight, Remus thought that might have not been the best—or truest thing to say.

--

Hermione Granger didn't really remember a birth or a waking up or anything. She wasn't, and then suddenly, she was. Memories stretched out before her, with the opaqueness of watching someone else through a silvery mirror. They were her memories, she knew this, but she felt totally detached from them—like they weren't hers at all, even though she could remember living them, and as absurd as it sounded, remember remembering them.

When her eyes finally focused, she couldn't see anything but darkness. She was slightly queasy, too, as if she was constantly in motion. This made her so sick, in fact, that she put her head on her hands and went to sleep, and didn't wake from phantom dreams for a long, long time. Perhaps she did, but didn't notice, because when she opened her eyes all she saw was that never ending darkness. At times, she even doubted her existence. She couldn't figure out where she was, but assumed it was the hospital wing. She'd hurt herself or been attacked or something, and now they wanted her to rest. So she did.

When light finally came again, it was searing and painful, but it was a blessed relief to her. This was proof that she was real, not just some forgotten shadow.

Hermione's surroundings were familiar—it was her room at Hogwarts, the one she'd had the past year as head girl. The only difference was that the window looked into another vaguely familiar room.

"I was just terribly hurt, and so they connected my quarters to a teachers', to make sure I am alright," she told herself, but with each passing day, the rationalizations grew fewer and feebler. She finally had to admit to herself that she had no clue what was happening—no one answered her calls, and the room she could see before her was always empty.

Until he came. Admittedly, Severus Snape had been the absolute last person she'd expected to see (she would have much preferred Harry or Ron…or even Ginny, she told herself) but he too, was a welcome—if somewhat painful--sight.

He hadn't been very happy to see her. He'd stared right into her room (Hermione still hadn't grasped the odd dimensional difference between her room and the one she could see) and then immediately turned and walked back through the door.

Now she was pacing angrily. She had no clue what was going on, and Snape had been gone for hours. She hoped that he would come back, because she'd given up entirely on figuring out what was going on, and it had been a long time since she'd been able to talk to anybody.

He eventually returned, looking rather the worse for wear. He came into his laboratory (Hermione had been annoyed to realize that she was looking out over the NEWT level lab that also served as Snape's private lab for experimentation. She couldn't believe she didn't recognize it, but then her memory had been rather foggy as of late) messy and very annoyed looking.

"Professor!" she called out, and Snape gave her a sharp wave of his hand.

"Not now," he snapped, and Hermione's anger broke.

"Don't you "not now" me! I've been in this room for at least a week, and in the Hospital or heaven knows where for weeks before that! I want to know what is going on, why I can't get out of my room, and why the hell I've been looking out over your empty lab for the past week!"

Snape froze. Very few people spoke to him like that, Hermione was sure, and she also thought she hadn't ever cursed in front of a teacher.

"You honestly do not know?" He asked calmly, stepping closer to her little window.

"No, I do not," she fumed, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

"Miss…Granger" he seemed to hesitate at her name, "come as close to my laboratory as you can," he instructed her. Hermione gave him an odd look, then proceeded to follow his directions.

"Now look down,"

She did so again. She could see a gilded gold frame surrounding her window, and at the bottom was a small silver plaque with some writing in a fancy font. Fortunately, after seven years of reading Harry, Ron, and sometimes Neville's handwriting upside down, she could read this easily.

_Hermione Granger_

_Head Girl_

_1979-1998_

"_What!_" She shrieked. It was rather high pitched and girly in it's anger and panic, a rather unHermione-like sound, but she didn't care at the moment.

"You are a photograph of the late Hermione Granger, it seems," Snape said softly, and she shook her head violently.

"No, I _am _Hermione. I know I am! I'm not dead! I don't feel dead!" She cried, and somewhere in the back of her mind she was surprised at how very…gentle Snape was seeming to be.

"Perhaps you are, but the real…pardon, the physical Hermione died over two months ago."

And then, with a sudden lurch, Hermione knew the darkness again. And this time she welcomed it.

--

A/N: Thoughts? Just the beginning. More soon, if people seem to like the idea. Thanks for reading. 


	2. Fatal Tragedy

Shards Behind A Golden Frame

Chapter One: Fatal Tragedy

Summary: Hermione begins to come to grips with her mortality, and Snape with the lot in life he has been given.

A/N: Sorry about the long wait. Graduation looms over my head and I've become ungodly busy. And I wasn't exactly sure where to go with this in the beginning. It's unbeta-ed, so forgive any glaring errors and I hope you enjoy. :)

--

_Just beyond the churchyard gates  
Where the grass is overgrown  
I saw her writing on her stone  
I felt like I would suffocate _

"In loving memory of our child  
So innocent, eyes open wide…"

_Dream Theater, Through Her Eyes_

_From Metropolis Part II: Scenes From A Memory_

--

Severus Snape was at a complete loss. He knew fairly well how to handle a fainted human being…but a photographic one? He didn't know what to do about the young woman sprawled across the floor of her former room. He didn't think she could really hurt herself, and it wasn't like she was real, either. Severus felt some semblance of pity for the magical being. He had never particularly paid attention to the various paintings around Hogwarts, and he certainly wasn't one to horde photographs. He didn't know how they responded to their deaths. Most of the photographs seemed kind of oblivious. It was always the paintings that seemed more conscious of themselves.

The only painting of someone he knew was that of Albus Dumbledore's in the Headmistress's office. He had, of course, avoided that like the plague on his reinstatement.

The old man was true to his word, as always. He'd been cleared of murder charges around the Holiday season of the most recent Christmas, and allowed to take over NEWT level potions from Professor Slughorn, who had been very unhappily forced to spend another year as a professor. The other Professor was thankful to be rid of the workload, and for more time to make his connections for his "Slug Club".

Snape's lips twisted unconsciously into an expression of disgust. The Slug Club had always rubbed him the wrong way, even as a student. He could never figure out whether it was because he was never a part of it, or because he thought it was ridiculous. Probably a bit of both.

Albus was a clever old codger—he'd set it up as though the Death Eaters had employed their most connected and wealthiest members to weasel Severus out of his warrant, even though it was his hand playing it all along, even from the grave. So now, despite his crimes, he'd been allowed to return to the only home he'd ever known and continue to corrupt, scare, and sometimes teach the Wizarding World's brightest. Or not so bright, he thought with a frown, considering the Ron Weasleys and Neville Longbottoms of the world.

Severus shook his head in annoyance. He had spent most of the past year banishing all thoughts from the events that happened the previous year, and he had no desire to bring them up again. It was the only way he could continue functioning as he needed to. The Order had been running blind since Dumbledore's death, and it was only slightly less blind with him passing his information along.

Snape turned back to the painting. He guessed that was what it was. It had come from a photograph taken by Colin Creevy only a week or two before the girl had died. Then when it was enlarged and printed, it was put on a heavy piece of matte canvas, so it was given the texture and the grandeur of a painting. He supposed it wasn't that important which one it happened to be.

It was colored in the muted tones of the evening, and the original pose had been of Hermione seated on the edge of the desk in the Head Girl quarters, a quill tucked behind her ear and a book across her lap. She was dressed in the school uniform, but the white blouse was untucked and unbuttoned a couple buttons from the top. She was only in her knee high socks—the shoes were tucked neatly away under her desk. Her skirt was rumpled instead of the immaculate image she usually put together, and her tie was only loosely looped around her neck.

Snape felt uncomfortable again. He didn't want to go tap on the glass frame in front of the painting, it reminded him of someone tapping on the glass in a fish tank or banging on his window.

So he opted for what he knew was the cop-out response. Not that he much cared that it was a cop out; it's not like he asked for the painting anyway. He swept over to his desk (the other teachers ridiculed him mercilessly about it, but some of the theatrics he added for intimidation factor towards the children had become old habits, such as snapping around and allowing his cloak to sweep behind him) and sat down gracefully, pulling out a piece of parchment and the most recent of the Charms research magazines.

After a while he found what he was looking for. Smirking, he took out a quill and straightened the parchment, then began to write in his spidery scrawl. He wrote out a quick, fairly terse note, signed the bottom, and then rolled the issue of the Charms magazine into it. He felt satisfied with himself as he sealed the parchment. That was the proof that his hunch was correct, and he felt the need to rub it in his cousin's face.

He stood up and set the fairly heavy scroll on a side table where he usually placed things that he needed to remember to do. It hadn't been a problem once, but he had so many delicate matters to deal with on a daily basis that when depression, lack of sleep, and (although he was loathe to admit it) old age began to kick in he decided it was better to not take a chance. So now he had a small space cleared on a workbench where he put pressing matters so he'd know what had to be done when he finished his daily activities. The letter to his cousin wasn't really pressing, but it had become an unconscious habit of his.

There was a soft moan from across the room as Severus returned to his desk. He paused, his dark eyes flickering to the foreign painting on the wall.

Hermione was pulling herself up off of the floor, rubbing her elbow. She must have bumped it on the desk when she fell.

After the general grogginess of waking up wore off after several seconds, Hermione was mortified. Merlin, she'd never fainted in her entire life! It was so…victorianesque. As Ron and Harry had endured many late night rants about the treatment of women in history, she was completely disgusted to have reacted in such a weak and cliché way.

Then the event of actually fainting left her mind and the cause filled up the void it had left. Well, she _still_ hadn't fainted in her entire life, she thought sardonically. She couldn't believe she hadn't figured out what was going on—all the clues had been there. But in all her pondering it never crossed her mind that she was dead.

Lost in thought and absently continuing to rub her elbow, she sat down on the bed. Everything was how she remembered—the bed, the paintings, the arrangement of her papers. The only thing missing was a purring puddle of ginger fur on her pillow.

The whole situation had been a bit too colossal for her mind to settle, but the absence of Crookshanks and in essence, the loss of him, was the hammer that began to force the square peg through the round hole of her brain. All of a sudden the emotional shock was too much to ignore, even for Hermione. Not even the idea of studying the magic and circumstances behind her odd existence could redirect her thoughts.

At that moment all she wanted to do was throw herself onto her bed and cry into her pillow, but she wasn't alone. The last thing she needed was to embarrass herself in front of Snape again by doing such a typically teenage thing.

Snape had been carefully observing the painting throughout all of this, although he was very discreet about it. It was a jarring sensation, to be watching an atleast semi-intelligent being that one knew was dead. Ghosts were different…they were ghosts. It was a hard distinction to explain, even to himself.

"Crookshanks," Hermione said quietly, not succeeding in keeping her voice steady. "What happened to Crookshanks?" She asked him, finally looking up at him. She decided to focus on the more tangible part of what was happening, and the least upsetting, and that was that her cat was gone.

"I believe Miss Weasley took your familiar with her," Snape replied without looking at her, pretending to busy himself with some scholarly essay scrolls on his desk. The cat had not been the first thing he'd expected her to ask about.

"Oh," she said in response. There was a long silence, broken only by miniscule sniffles as Hermione continued to try and keep from crying. Snape took the opportunity to seat himself at his desk while she was silent.

"What is the date?" her voice was tremulous, as if she was afraid to ask him questions. It was a very different Hermione than the one that had demanded his attention earlier.

Snape was slightly annoyed at her attitude; he'd been more than patient with the girl, and in return he expected her to be rather quick and polite about her questions.

"It is the last week of July," he answered tersely, pulling out a quill and marking points of interest in an alchemy monthly as he flipped through it.

There was yet another long and heavy silence.

Snape frowned and set down his quill, swiveling in his chair to look directly at her for the first time in the entire conversation.

"Miss Granger, there are certain questions that I know you are going to ask. I do not, even in the summers, have enough time to wait around on a painting. If you have anything else you wish to say, be done with it so I can return to my work." It came out a bit harsher than he meant, but he had valuable research to do during his spare hours before the hormonal masses of students returned, the Order required his assistance, or before he was summoned to a revel. Besides, it wasn't as if this was really Hermione he was speaking to.

Hermione withdrew slightly, her shoulders slumping as she hugged herself tightly. The tone of his voice also caused just as much dull anger in her gut as hurt and withdrawal, and her gaze grew stern. When she spoke again, her voice was the complete opposite of her body language.

"Why do I remember. I remember everything up to a week before the NEWTS. Why don't a remember that?"

"I assume it is because that is when the photograph that your painting is based after was taken. I cannot give another explanation, as the nature of magical paintings and photographs is a murky world. Is there anything else?" his voice was starting to get edgy and annoyed as he waited for her to ask the obvious question. It was odd, because he didn't want nor know how to answer that question, but he'd rather she got it over with instead of dragging it out.

Hermione gripped the blankets on the bed tightly, her knuckles paling. She braced herself, exhaling a deep breath.

"How…how…" she began, and mentally berated herself for being such a coward.

"…did you die?" Snape finished for her. She froze for a moment, then nodded.

"You were murdered by Death Eaters."

Hermione sighed.

"I figured as much," she admitted. There was a silence.

"Anything else to add? " Hermione said a moment later, looking slightly perplexed.

"No," he said firmly. Hermione frowned, running a hand through her hair.

"No?" she questioned, and Snape all but growled.

"I assume that someone of your intellect understood the simplicity of my answer." He snapped, and Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Maybe I would like to know more than that!" she said angrily, standing up from her perch on the bed. Her fists curled unconsciously at her side.

Snape didn't look the least bit perturbed by this action.

"Does it really matter?" he asked her calmly, and she gave him a shocked expression.

"Of course it does!" she shot back, too surprised at that response to come up with a better argument.

"It was horrible and bloody, and you died. That's the end of the story. The details are of no consequence to me. It's hardly the only death of the type, nor the most heart-wrenching. It certainly won't be the last," Snape was speaking calmly now—there was no bite in his tone. The words were smooth and flowed like liquid from his lips, but Hermione was somehow not comforted. He seemed to be getting angrier the softer and calmer his voice got.

She could faintly see an outline around him, swirling the vaguest colors of reds and yellows and blues. She had only noticed it, in fact, because she'd narrowed her eyes at him when she'd gotten annoyed. And somehow she knew that the anger was not directed at her or her question. It went deeper than that.

Suddenly her expression changed and her head tilted slightly to the side, the odd aura forgotten.

"You were there, weren't you?" she asked him softly, and the question seemed to catch him off guard. He froze, then stood up and took a couple of steps towards her painting.

"What?" he demanded, his eyes boring into her face. They glittered in the low light, subtle expressions flickering behind their dark pupils. She'd never been this close to him before and looked him in the face at the same time. She wondered why she'd never noticed just how much his eyes showed, and how much that they didn't hide. Perhaps in his anger and pain he let down the wall that he'd built over his eyes and face. And the tiniest bit of the wall he'd build around his heart.

"You saw me die." She said confidently, and from the merest flicker of his black eyes, she knew she was right.

They stood there for almost an eternity, staring at each other from across the plains of magic and death.

Hermione broke the stillness by stepping closer to her frame, still keeping eye contact.

"Tell me," she spoke quietly, but that broke the moment. The walls sprung up almost immediately and the doors slammed shut on whatever tiny bit of insight into Snape she'd been able to use for the past seconds.

"I will speak of this no more. I have important work to finish," he snapped, turning away.

"Don't you dare…" Hermione began, her anger flaring back again.

Snape swung around and moved so fast that she didn't realize that he was moving towards her until he was there.

"You presumed to command me once, don't ever do so again. I told you that I will say nothing more, and that is the end of it!" He snarled and Hermione's eyes widened.

"And remember, Miss Granger, that although the Ministry placed you here, I hold power over your existence, whatever kind it may be. Glass can be shattered, paintings can be destroyed. Remember that next time you think to force me into doing something I don't wish to do."

He turned on his heel and stalked away into his chambers, slamming the door behind him. The walls rattled and she felt the room tremble beneath her.

Hermione continued to stare at where he'd been for a moment, then indulged in the powerful desire she'd been feeling for the past twenty minutes or so.

She threw herself onto her bed, clutching her pillow to her chest, and began to sob. Tears of peach and brown ran down her face and blinded her. Every time she tried to calm down they just came harder, and she wondered perhaps if she cried hard enough, she could wash everything away.

----

Several hours later, and after she had calmed down, Hermione had resolutely decided that she was going to explore the castle. She also needed someone to talk to, and with school being out, Harry and Ron would be nowhere to be found. She certainly didn't want to talk to Snape, and he hadn't been out of his chambers since they'd fought.

Hermione still didn't understand what had gotten him so upset and agitated, but she knew enough to know that it hadn't really been caused by her at all, even if she'd ended up being who it was aimed at. There was a different viciousness that came with Snape being directly mad _at _a person, instead of just generally being angry. She'd never been on the receiving end, but she'd witnessed it happen to other people.

Headmistress McGonagall was the only person she could think of that would be of any help and a comfort for her to speak to.

Hermione carefully studied the door in her painting. In her real life and her real room, it had lead into the Gryffindor Commons. She was quite sure that nothing in her plane existed other than what was painted. She probably didn't even have to use the door, but just walking off of her painting was still a bit much for her to deal with at the moment.

Steeling herself, Hermione opened the door and stepped outside into infinite blackness. There was no color, no light, and no sound. Even the colors and sounds from her bedroom tended to be sucked into the void.

She felt fear twist in her gut. Was that how it was supposed to be? To be sure, there were no other paintings in Snape's private lab that she could ask. She stared at the blackness for several moments, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip.

Then she closed her eyes and ran forward into the darkness.

She had never been a claustrophobic person, but this was making her body automatically panic. The total unnaturalness of it was a mental sort of terror she'd never known. She ran faster, desperate to get anywhere, as long as there was sound and light.

When her feet finally touched ground, she could feel the sun hot on her face and hear wind rustling through trees.

She collapsed what felt like dirt in relief, and cautiously opened her eyes.

She was in a great big field, with a backdrop of forests some hundred yards behind her. Tall grasses rippled softly in the wind, and a summer sun sparkled overhead.

Hermione turned her head to the left and jumped, letting out a startled shriek.

There was a hunting dog sitting on his haunches right next to her, his nose level with hers.

His eyes were amber and friendly, and his tail thumped rhythmically on the ground as he gently sniffed her over. Then he barked excitedly and hopped up, bouncing around energetically.

Deep male voices quickly followed, with the howls of more hounds. Hermione was momentarily frightened as she saw three heavy men come over the rise from the direction of the forests, two other dogs following at their heels. They wore thick clothes and carried heavy rifles over their shoulders.

"Well, what is this?" The first of the men cried in delighted surprise. He was big and burly, with dark hair and a shaggy beard. The man to his left was just as big, but his hair was grey and his manner seemed more reserved.

"I heard Professor Snape complaining about a new painting the Ministry'd brought about," the older man supplied. Hermione tried to ignore this comment, because she hated causing anybody any trouble.

The dog next to her yipped happily and ran to greet the third man, who was tall but not as muscular. He was also not carrying a rifle. He had a shock of red hair and brown eyes, and Hermione suddenly felt a terrible longing for Ron, and tears filled her eyes.

"Don't be afraid, girl, we won't do nothin' to you," the big man in the front said kindly, walking over and gently picking her up and setting her back on her feet.

She started to cry, embarrassed all the while, because it was such a characteristic Hagrid move that the big man had just done and it only reminded her of all she'd lost.

"What's the matter?" he asked gently, and she found herself babbling at him almost instantly.

"I died and now I'm stuck in this painting in Snape's office and he's an awful bastard, and all my friends are gone, and my books, and my cat…" she just trailed on for a while, sobbing hysterically while the dark haired man patted her back gently.

The white dog with brown spots from earlier carefully approached her and began to lick her bare legs above where her socks stopped.

Hermione looked down for a moment, and sniffling, patted the dog's head. He wagged his tail and gave her hand a friendly lick.

"His name is Bird," the red-haired man told her softly, and she giggled slightly at the idea of a hunting dog named Bird.

"And I'm Robert," said the big man. Hermione tried to give him a grateful smile, but she wasn't sure it worked very well.

"This is Lionel, and Terrence," he continued, gesturing to the silver-haired man and then the red-haired man. They both smiled at her.

"My name is Hermione," she said after a moment, slightly embarrassed after they gave her meaningful looks when she didn't reply.

"Are you now?" Robert asked in great interest. "You were the talk of the castle a couple o' months back," he explained. Hermione felt her hopes rise slightly.

"Really? What were they saying?" she asked, her eyes brightening.

"Not much of substance. We only heard bits and pieces of the gossip," Lionel told her, and her face fell.

"What are you doing out of your painting so soon? Most of the paintings that once were real don't leave at first unless someone comes to get them?" Lionel asked curiously, and Hermione shrugged vaguely.

"I wanted to see Headmistress McGonagall, but I don't know how to get there, or even where I am," she confessed, and Lionel nodded thoughtfully.

"We're located in one of the upper corridors. I can send young Terrence to escort you to one of the paintings in the Headmistress's office, if you wish," Lionel offered, and Hermione gave him a bright smile.

"That would be wonderful," she told them, and Robert nodded.

"Ah, good. Just come around later sometime, and we'll help you out if you need it." He tipped his hat to her, whistled to the dogs, and set back out across the fields. Lionel smiled at her then followed, leaving her alone with the red-haired man.

"Getting around is a bit different, but you'll get used to it. Some of the other real ones say it's no worse than apparition after a while," Terrence had a very soft voice; at times, Hermione had to lean in very close to hear his words.

"It's not the best, but you basically pass through the dark areas and emerge in another painting. It's much easier when the paintings are close together, because you only spend a split second in the void. The Professor's office is fairly bare, you had quite a long way to go." He explained quickly to her, gently taking her elbow and leading her out of his frame.

He was right; it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been the first time, and the trip until the next painting was much shorter. So many people and landscapes flashed before her eyes that she could barely remember any of them.

Finally they stepped into a painting and lingered for a moment, Hermione shielding her eyes from the bright sun overhead. Terrence took her arm and led her gently forward, out of the sun's glare and closer to what was the glass that separated the painting from the real world.

Taking a quick look around, Hermione realized that this painting was of a generic piece of scenery in Scotland, complete with rolling hills and muggy air. At this, she knew she must be in McGonagall's quarters, because she'd only see portraits in the Headmaster's tower.

The room was fairly spacious, and neatly organized. A double bed sat under the window with a great, curving frame that looked to be several hundred years old, and a set of bagpipes sat on an old trunk resting at the foot of the bed.

Other than the furniture, some photographs, and the paintings on the wall, the room was beginning to look rather gutted. Hermione searched the room, and saw the form of Minerva McGonagall carefully packing away clothes and photographs. There were dozens of photographs across the room, most of them framed, but some of them not. The elderly witch was placing a layer of clothes in a trunk, followed by a couple of photos, and then another layer of clothes. It was obvious the photos were very special, since she was taking such care to pack them where they wouldn't be scratched or shadowed. Hermione only saw it for a split second, but she was sure there was a photograph of a younger Dumbledore lovingly placed in the sleeve of a witch's robe.

Hermione cleared her throat softly, and McGonagall turned around quickly, startled by the noise in her empty quarters.

Her robes were loose and made of light, comfortable fabric and her hair was pulled into a loose braid. Her infamous hat was sitting on a chair by the door rather than on her head, and Hermione was struck with how pretty the Headmistresss must have been when she was younger and dressed less severely.

"Good evening, Terrence," she said politely to Hermione's company. The red haired man nodded towards her with a smile. It was only then that McGonagall noticed her deceased student.

She handled it well. Her only reaction was that she gasped quietly, her eyes growing wide and her skin paling. McGonagall managed to recover quickly, and she smiled sadly at the girl in the painting.

"Hermione," she said in a manner of greeting, her voice sounding rather strained. Hermione hoped it was because she was sad, and not that she was annoyed. Hermione hated upsetting people.

"I had heard they'd commissioned a painting of you, and then hung it in poor Severus's lab," she moved closer to the painting, her packing forgotten.

"Not that you are a burden, dear, just that it was an insult to Severus," she added a moment later at the young witch's expression.

"Why? Because he was there when I died?" The words fell out of her mouth, and she gasped, clamping her hand over her face. She had not meant to mention that at all, much less so soon in the conversation.

Minerva gave her an odd look.

"I suppose you could look at it that way. It was meant to rub his failure in his face, I think, more than anything else." She stopped for a moment, as if the full weight of what Hermione had asked had only just sunk in.

"How did you know that?" the old woman was surprised.

"I guessed," Hermione answered, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "When he got so upset when I tried to convince him to tell me how I died. Do you know?" She pounced on the thought that she'd have her questions answered. McGonagall shook her head.

"That is Severus's tale to tell, not mine. I do not have the right, and he only revealed it to me because of our mutual love of Albus. Some things take time, Hermione. I'm sure that if it still matters to you, he will someday tell you or someone else who can pass it along. I'm not sure I even know the whole story," At Hermione's crestfallen expression, she continued. "It is a matter of healing, Miss Granger. To heal, he must forget for a while. That is simply how Severus is. It's how he has to be, with what he must do on a daily basis."

Hermione tried to quell her annoyance at being denied information, but stepped closer to the frame and spoke when the old witch returned to her packing.

"Are you going on vacation for the summer?" she asked politely, and was surprised as a stricken expression crossed across the old woman's face.

"No, I'm not," she replied softly, her hands stilling from their careful wrapping. Hermione made a wordless noise of question in her confusion and Minerva straightened.

"According to the board of governors, I am not fit for the title of Headmistress any longer," her voice was calm, but the force with which she slammed the lid to the trunk closed belied her true feelings.

"But why?" Hermione exclaimed in surprise, and Minerva began to pace angrily and play with her long braid of hair, an uncharacteristic show of anxiety. She reminded Hermione of an angry and caged cat.

"Headmasters who allow students to die under their care are not fit for the responsibility they were given. When you died, my dear, it wasn't a week before my removal papers were signed." Her anger gave way to sudden sadness as she looked around her quarters.

"This has been my home for almost fifty years," she spoke barely above a whisper. Finally recovering after floundering for an answer, Hermione spoke again.

"But they never did this to Dumbledore, he was reinstated…" she began, and Minerva waved a tired hand.

"I know. But he was Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of our age, and I am only an expendable old woman without the support he had. No, this is how it shall be, and I must accept it. I do thank you for your support," she gave Hermione a sad smile.

"Where will you go? Who is taking your place?"

"I don't know where I'll go, nor do I know who will take over this post after me." She sighed. "Albus left the school in my care, and now I must leave it. It is a terrible thing to do to me."

Neither of them said anything for a long while, and Minerva returned to her packing. Hermione tried to grasp the idea of a Hogwarts without Dumbledore _and_ McGonagall. Dumbledore had been gone so much the last year of his life that it was easy to pretend that he was only off on another quest, rather than sleeping eternally in a white tomb. But McGonagall had always been there, with her stern looks, tight buns and ever present witch hat.

"You could use magic," Hermione suggested, and Minerva chuckled softly.

"Indeed I could, but then it would be over far too fast. When I pack by hand, I can take my time, and that's just a few minutes more I get to stay in this room." She didn't even look up at Hermione this time.

Hermione took a seat on the spongy ground of the painting at watched her favorite teacher lovingly pack her things, down to the last photograph and even the bed frame.

"It's been in my family for generations," she explained as she shrunk the heavy cherry wood and placed it in yet another trunk.

When it was all packed away, Minerva stood in the center of the empty stone room, a few stray tears trailing down her stern face despite her efforts against it. Waving her wand and sending her trunks out the door, she turned to face Hermione one last time.

"Goodbye, Hermione. It was very good to speak to you before I leave. Thank you for your company," she began, and seemed unsure as to what else to say. 'I'm sorry you died?' or 'You were one of the brightest students to grace these halls' seemed far to impersonal and cliché. But when she thought about it, she hadn't really _known_ Hermione well enough to make a personal comment. So she waved to the girl in the painting, picked up her hat and placed it on her head, and turned to walk out the door.

"Professor…why did you talk to me like you did? I'm only a painting." Hermione had to ask one last question before she left Hogwarts forever.

"I have seen several paintings of deceased friends over my years here, the greatest being Dumbledore's portrait. I talked to him everyday this past year, to request his advice and ease my pain. It is a way to heal and become accustomed to the hole that death leaves in your life. Besides, just because you may not really be "Hermione" doesn't make you any less of a person or a creature. It would be rude to treat you like anything else." She paused a moment.

"Take care of him, Hermione. He may be a snarky old bastard, but I love him dearly. Keep him company, for few people know the debt we owe to Severus Snape." With that, she shut the door, and Hermione watched yet another person leave her life forever.

A/N: Yeah, so not much happens. Just a chapter to set up the world that Hermione lives in. I hope to have the next chapter done soon. Thanks!


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